


Help, I'm Alive

by waketosleep



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2010-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waketosleep/pseuds/waketosleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk is not a spy named George Kaplan. Not that it seems to be doing him any favours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fusion of Star Trek XI and North by Northwest.

"I'm out of here, Janice," said Jim, shutting the door of his office behind him. "Have a good weekend. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he added with a wink.

Janice grinned but didn't look up from her computer; she was putting together a presentation for the department meeting on Monday. "I wouldn't dream of it, Jim, especially considering it's such a short list."

He was at the door to the hallway, buttoning up his jacket as he walked, when she called after him. "Nearly forgot!" she said, waving a mini data PADD at him. "Your mom called. Your brother's birthday is next week."

Jim spun on his heel to face her again. "Shit. Get him a card. Something funny. Geriatric theme, maybe."

"That's shockingly avant-garde for an older sibling's birthday. Well done. I can see why they look to you for creative solutions."

"I don't pay you to mock me, Rand," he said.

"That's what you think. Goodnight, Jim."

A smile tugged at his lips all the way to the elevator. Stewart from the seventh floor didn't fail to notice, and his eyebrow climbed as Jim stepped inside.

"Is that the smile of someone with epic weekend plans?" Stewart asked.

Jim grinned widely back at the obnoxious, posturing fuck. "The Friday evening ritual. Drinks at Rick's on Fifth, and then who knows?"

Stewart laughed in a way that kind of made Jim want to punch him. "Classic." Thankfully, the door opened on the lobby a few seconds later. "Well, have a good one." Stewart waved as they parted ways.

Jim made quick, determined strides for the doors. The freedom of pavement and the far-away sky beckoned through the shatterproof glass. He burst outside with a deep breath of tainted air and rolled his shoulders inside his overpriced suit. Some days he wished he was still in the Midwest, messing with cars and getting covered in dirt and grease, instead of being trapped in his office in a high-rise in Manhattan until he could go home to his small apartment that was also in Manhattan. But then, he'd heard that was more or less a normal feeling, and the reason Fridays existed in the first place.

Rick's was the usual crowd of rolled-up shirtsleeves, loosened ties and expensive scotch. A cheer went up as he approached his table and the group noticed him.

"There's our boy!" Tony said, pulling out a chair for him and slapping his shoulder as he sat down. "We're two laps ahead of you already, man!"

"Whatever," said Ryan. "When you go out with Jimbo, you need at least a two-drink handicap just to keep up."

A laugh went around the table and Jim grinned into his scotch, winking at the waitress who'd just set it down in front of him.

"Damn right," he said, setting his glass down again. "The way this week went, I'll be two-fisting them by six. Who's got the next round?"

It turned out to be him, naturally. The bartender was calling across the room for some guy as Jim turned in his chair. There were no waitresses in ordering range, so he got up to make his way to the bar, twisting and weaving through the crowd.

The hand on his arm startled him, and before he could shake it off he was being dragged out of the bar, swallowed by the throng of people. "What the fuck?" he tried, but it was too noisy, and the faceless person who was manhandling him paid no attention.

He barely even saw any of the street before he was shoved into the back of a car with tinted windows. Another guy was already in there as Jim was pushed into the middle of the seat, and the door slammed with a final note behind him. He'd just noticed the phaser pointed at him when his abductor barked, "Let's go," at whoever was driving.

They were all burly, stoic-looking men in identical, cheap grey suits. "What the fuck do you think you're do--" Jim snapped, and then there was a glimpse of a hypospray, and a stab in the neck, and nothing.

***

Jim woke up feeling like he'd just made his way to the bottom of a tequila bottle. He blinked, groaning, and froze at the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling and the feeling of an equally unfamiliar couch underneath him. He sat up gingerly to see that he was in some kind of antique-designed study. Abruptly he remembered the goons and the sedative, and shook his head to try and regain some kind of alertness.

He was nearly feeling brave enough to try standing up without falling over when the door opened behind him.

"Ah, you're awake."

"Look," Jim said, "I don't know what the hell you think you're doing with me, but I'm going to beat you senseless and then I'm going to call the cops."

The goon who'd held the phaser on him in the car walked into the room and moved to stand in front of Jim's couch. "Yes, you should definitely take on an armed man twice your size," the goon said. "That's a great plan." He looked up at a noise from the doorway and then kind of... melted into the background. "Admiral," he said deferentially.

Jim turned and blinked at the petite blonde woman standing in the doorway. She shut the door carefully behind her. "Did you enjoy the drive?" she asked blandly as she moved to sit in a chair across from Jim.

Jim narrowed his eyes. "Unfortunately, I got really sleepy for some reason on the car ride," he returned just as blandly.

"That's a shame. There's some nice autumn foliage starting."

"Look, who the fuck are you and where the fuck am I?"

She cocked her head. "I'm Admiral Townsend of Starfleet. You're in my house in Long Island."

"I've had nicer invitations for weekends at the summer house," Jim quipped.

Townsend's lips twisted. "I just want to ask you some questions, Kaplan," she said.

"You could have asked me nicely in Manhattan," he started. "Wait. Kaplan?" He pointed at himself. "Did you just call me Kaplan?"

She rolled her eyes. "I just thought I'd play along with your stupid little charade. One name's as good as another, right?"

Jim stood up. "My name," he said, with mounting horror, "is not Kaplan. It's Kirk. Jim Kirk."

The goon actually laughed. "Now that's some dedication."

"Fuck you, mongoloid," Jim snarled, stabbing a finger in his general direction. "I bet I can still take you."

"Oh, I don't doubt you've had the training; I'm sure Stevenson here could learn a thing or two," Townsend said calmly. "But please sit down and let's have this conversation like two adults."

Jim sat on the edge of the couch cushion. "Is the conversation going to be about how your thugs have clearly picked up the wrong guy? Because I don't know who you think I am, but I work in advertising and I was out for the evening with some friends, who are probably wondering what's happened to me." He raised his eyebrows threateningly. "They might start asking questions."

Townsend laughed, a light, tinkling laugh that came off sinister anyway. Stevenson smiled to himself from behind her chair. "Oh, you're _good_. And so much easier on the eyes than most of your type."

Jim crossed his arms, and she sobered quickly.

"All right, down to business. I want to know how much you know. Names, dates, details. And how you've figured it out." She arched an eyebrow. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Will you?" Jim asked, arms still crossed.

"At the very least, you'll walk out of here alive. If your information is _very_ good, I may have a role for you on my team. The rewards are lucrative, Mr. Kaplan."

"Listen, lady," Jim started, but Townsend overrode him.

"Why don't you just cut the bullshit and say yes? We both know that's your only option at this point."

"I really don't know how many more ways I can tell you that I have no idea what you're talking about." Jim glanced at his watch, stifling his surprise at the late hour; it was indeed getting dark outside, beyond the huge study windows. "So why don't you just give up this fucking farce and let me go? I might still have time to catch another round at Rick's before the night kicks into full swing." He looked up at her. "Busy weekend, you know how it is."

A furrow formed between Admiral Townsend's brows. "You're making a mistake," she said.

Jim stood. "Yeah, be sure to let the authorities know about that. Am I going to show myself out, or are you going to at least provide a ride back to the city?"

She stood up quickly. "Your contact in DC has been made," she said coldly. "He committed suicide."

Jim blinked. "Pardon?"

"Agent White." She shook her head. "Ate his phaser. Terrible mess."

"I've never been to DC."

She cast him a shrewd look. "You checked into the Lombardy in DC on June 6th and stayed there until the 11th. Under the name of George Kaplan." She took a step forward. "Then it was onto the Sherwyn in Pittsburgh the following week. Then Cincinnati. Memphis. Chicago. A few jaunts to the West Coast. Right now, you're registered as Kaplan at the Plaza in New York. Next week, Des Moines. Of all places." She had taken another step with every city, until they were standing bare inches apart. She was several inches shorter but her bearing might as well have had them eye-to-eye.

"Give in, Kaplan. We've got you right where we want you."

Jim leaned in close, tilting his head a little as if to kiss her.

"Get fucked," he whispered sweetly.

Townsend backed off smoothly, snapping her fingers at Stevenson. "I have dinner guests," she said.

"Ooh, what's on the menu?" Jim asked.

"Nothing for you. You and Drake take care of him while I'm gone, Stevenson." She swept out of the room without another word, and the other goon from the car walked in as she passed; presumably this was Drake.

Jim looked at the two of them. "Does 'take care of him' mean, 'get him a drink and then a ride home'?"

Drake cracked his knuckles and Stevenson produced another hypospray.

***

When Jim came to, there was a breeze on his face. He picked his head up and blinked. He was in a car, on a road that hugged a cliff on one side and had nothing but ocean on the other.

He was behind the steering wheel of the car, in fact.

Adrenaline surged through him when he caught sight of the bend in the road, far too close. He stomped on the brake but the car kept speeding. The brakes were disabled. The accelerator was messed with, too; it was pressed to the floor and Jim wasn't touching it.

"Fuck!" he yelled, pulling the wheel hard to the right. The car swung around, fishtailing so hard that Jim was sure he nearly went over the cliff anyway, but then he was pointed down the road again so at least things were improving.

The fact that he was still speeding and had no means of stopping was still a problem, though. He careened down the road with his hands in a death grip on the steering wheel, thankful that it was late and there were no other cars. His head was still fuzzy from the drugs and he was sure that played with his reaction times, making his reflexes just a little too slow for the speed of the car. He'd count himself lucky if nearly plunging over a cliff (for the second time in his life, no less) was the last near-death experience he suffered tonight.

Jim realized with dismay that the road was taking him closer to a town, where there would be people, and cars, and traffic signals. No sooner had he had this thought than a car loomed in the distance, stopped at a red light. He pried one hand off the wheel long enough to smack the horn, which didn't work. These guys had been far too thorough. Jim took a deep breath, trying to clear the fog from his head, and hauled on the wheel again, cutting around the other car right before he would have rear-ended it and skidding through the intersection as he tried to straighten out his trajectory.

He managed, barely, to stay on the road, grimacing at the angry honk from the other car, and was flying down a quiet, residential street, nearly breathing normally again, when a siren started up behind him. He glanced in the mirror and swore. A high-speed chase, now. This wasn't going to end well, even if he lived.

Jim thought quickly. There was really only one course of action, if he wanted this to end. He spied a huge oak tree, half a mile up the road, and gently steered the car so that it ought to hit it directly. Then he opened the door, bracing it with one hand as the other held the wheel, watching carefully to gauge his distance from the tree. When he was close enough to be sure of hitting it, he took a deep breath, shoved the door open all the way and bailed, rolling with his head tucked in as the car slammed into the oak tree with an almighty crunch of wood and glass and metal. Small branches shook loose from the tree and rained down around Jim as he lay curled in a ball on somebody's lawn.

The police siren shut off and Jim heard the approach of the officer.

"You're under arrest," the cop said.

Jim sagged into the grass.

***

Jim's head cleared in the car on the way to the police station; he was nearly sober and lucid again as he made the walk of shame from the door to the booking desk. The handcuff chain clinked softly with every step he took.

They used his driver's license to enter him in the system, and he squirmed as the booking officer's eyebrows climbed for her hairline.

"Jesus," she said, scrolling through his file, "you've been a busy boy."

"That stuff's all at least five years old," he couldn't stop himself from pointing out.

"Mostly misdemeanours," she said, not really listening. "Couple minor felonies. Holy _fuck_\--grand theft auto? When you were _eleven_?"

So many happy memories surfacing. He sent a little mental 'thank you' to Frank, as he always did when his past caught up to him. "Look, are you gonna book me, or are we gonna stand here all night?" he snapped finally.

The arresting officer brought a heavy hand down on his shoulder. "Reckless driving while under the influence of intoxicants," he said.

Jim glared at him and the cop shrugged. "Tricorder scans found significant levels of a common tranquilizer in your blood. Little recreational fun got out of hand?"

_I was drugged. I couldn't stop the car. Someone tried to kill me,_ Jim didn't say. It was the same old story; with a record like that, they wouldn't believe him even if his story were a reasonable one. He kept his mouth shut and his expression blank.

"Put him in holding number three," the woman said, entering some information.

"Off we go, Mr. Kirk."

Jim was taken by the arm down the hallway, to the cells. "Hang on," he said, when they passed a comm system, "I need to make my phone call right now."

The cop uncuffed him with a sigh and let him pick up the comm. He thought, briefly, of calling one of his friends in New York, but then realized how dumb that would be. They were all drunk. Was fucking Tony going to come to Long Island in the middle of the night to bail his ass out of jail after he'd disappeared? No, he was not. Jim glared helplessly at the phone before punching in the long-distance number.

It took her three rings to pick up. "Yes?"

Amazingly, her voice unwound something in his chest. Jim leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. "Mom. It's me, Jim."

There was a pause. "Jim, it's like one in the morning there. What are you doing calling so late? And why isn't there a video pickup?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm at the lock-up, Mom. In..." he trailed off and looked up sharply at the cop. "Where are we?" he hissed.

The cop rolled his eyes. "Nassau County."

"I'm in Nassau County in Long Island," he finished.

"Jim."

"Mom, I--"

"Don't you 'Mom' me, James. Where the hell did this come from? I thought you'd smartened up!"

"It's a long story, which I will tell you someday but not right now. Look. Please bail me out? I have the money; I'll pay you back ASAP."

She sighed heavily. "I'll be there in the morning."

He blinked at the tone; she'd hung up. Slowly, he reached up to disconnect the call.

"Move it along, Kirk," the cop said. "You're cooling your heels tonight."

***

Jim woke up on a hard cot to see another cop looming over him.

"Kirk?"

"Yeah," Jim groaned, his throat dry.

"Rise and shine. You're free on bail."

Jim sat up quickly. "Is she still here?"

He got a mildly sympathetic look. "Came and went. Sorry."

Well, she hadn't stuck around to see him or take him home since a bar fight when he was nineteen and needed stitches, so that shouldn't have been surprising. He rubbed at his face before levering himself to his feet, his shirt beyond wrinkled and feeling gross on his skin after wearing it for twenty-four hours straight.

They gave him back his wallet, belt and tie and told him he was due back for court in two weeks, before sending him out into the obnoxious morning sunshine to find a cab that would take him back to Manhattan.

He found one, and discovered upon leaving town that he was, in fact, in Glen Cove ('Thanks for visiting!' declared the sign; Jim snorted). He settled in for the traffic-heavy drive back to the city and started formulating a plan.

George Kaplan was the name that the Starfleet admiral had given him. Some kind of spy, clearly. Considering Starfleet was after him, an enemy of the Federation. Unless Townsend wasn't on the up-and-up, either. Her tactics didn't scream professionalism, that was for sure. Did Jim look a lot like Kaplan, or was Kaplan a spectre, a concept, someone who stayed off the radar? Impossible to say. He had to find out more.

All he knew right now was that Kaplan was staying at the Plaza.

He made a quick stop at home for a shower and fresh clothes, ignoring the messages piling up on his comm unit, and swung into his favourite coffee joint for a red eye before taking off at a brisk walk for 5th Ave. His mind raced the whole way; he was filled with a steely determination. When the ancient, stately form of the Plaza came into view, his heartbeat quickened. Jim stopped across the street and stared up helplessly at it for a long moment before draining the rest of his coffee and marching up to the door.

"Good morning," he said brightly to the desk clerk, who blinked back at him in surprise. Jim turned on a high-wattage smile, designed to charm, and watched her warm up and smile back.

"What can I do for you today?" she asked.

"You've got a George Kaplan staying here; call his room for me?"

"My pleasure, sir." She tapped at her console, looking up the room number, and then punched it into the comm. Jim was watching: room 717.

The comm trilled several times as Jim leaned on the desk and looked around the grand lobby.

"He's not answering, sir," she said finally.

"That's okay; I'll catch him later," Jim said, flashing her one last grin and a wink that made her blush, before a couple approached the desk. He took advantage of the distraction to slip away, toward the elevator bank.

"Seventh floor," he told the elevator operator.

It was early enough for a Saturday that the seventh floor corridor was deserted; Jim looked around and then headed to his right, scanning the doors. Room 717 was near the end of the hall, the door recessed slightly into the corridor walls. Perfect. With another quick look around, he reached into his pocket for the paperclips he'd swiped off of the lobby desk.

Jim didn't like to dwell on his misspent youth, and it was a little painful to realize how useful it could be sometimes. He used a paperclip to unscrew the cover from the lock mechanism and from there it was a simple matter of crossing some wires. The naked LED light blinked green and the door clicked open; he ducked inside the room and quickly shoved the cover back onto the lock, twisting the screws back in with his fingers. As long as it didn't fall apart under the force of a stern glare, he didn't really give a shit.

The door swept shut behind Jim as he looked around the hotel room. It was standard, for the Plaza, and so the opulence was kind of keyed down a little. Still nicer than anywhere he'd stayed.

It was also more or less devoid of any signs someone was staying there. The bed hadn't been slept in (it was too early for housekeeping to have gotten there already); there was no trace of the expected sprawl of personal effects that might result from a person spending a week in there. Jim opened the closet. There was a suitcase in the bottom and two suits hanging up. One suit was in a drycleaning bag. The tag was four days old.

He opened the suitcase. Neatly folded socks, underwear and shirts. No casual clothing. It didn't really seem like there was enough clothing to last someone a week, with two, maybe three suits. He put the suitcase back the way he'd found it and moved onto the bathroom.

The light glinted off of white marble fixtures in an equally empty bathroom. There was a shaving kit on the counter, with only a razor and some deodorant having found freedom from the bag. A travel bottle of Head and Shoulders perched on the edge of the tub.

"Goddammit," said Jim. What a waste of his fucking time. He stormed back out into the main room, looking around wildly.

"No papers, nothing interesting at all that would tell me who the hell you are?"

No sooner had the last word left his mouth, than he found himself looking at a piece of paper half-tucked under the desk blotter. He strode over to the desk and snatched it up; it was a photo, fingerprint-smudged and worn at the corners. Some official photo-op, maybe from a newswire. Admiral Townsend smiled brightly up at Jim from the left side of the photo. She was surrounded by men, all in Starfleet uniform.

Jim sat down in the desk chair without really paying attention. His gaze was riveted to the photo in his hands. "Well, look at you," he told it. "Just enough to keep me interested, huh? So Kaplan was investigating Townsend, after all."

There was a knock on the door; Jim nearly fell off the chair.

"Housekeeping!" the person on the other side announced.

Jim shot to his feet, nearly knocking the chair over. He flailed around with the photo for a moment and then shoved it in his back pocket. "Um, yes!" he called, thinking quickly. "Coming!"

He snatched open the door and smiled at the maid in what he hoped was a cool way. "How are you?"

She smiled back. "Fresh towels?"

He opened the door wider. "Sure. I'm just on my way out."

"Have a nice day, sir."

"You too," said Jim, making himself walk at a sedate pace into the hallway. The adrenaline was doing a lot more for him than the coffee had; he was hyper-aware of his surroundings all the way out the front door of the hotel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which genocide is not appropriate dinner conversation and nobody has sex in a hide-a-bed, but Jim does get shoved into a thinly-veiled closet metaphor.

Jim slept for three hours when he got home, and then he rolled out of bed and spent the afternoon pacing around his apartment. The photo from the hotel room lay on his coffee table. Taunting him.

By dinnertime, he'd packed a duffel bag and stuffed the photo in his pocket on his way out the door, barely stopping to lock it behind him.

La Guardia was wall-to-wall people; Jim wove his way through the crowds to a rush ticket kiosk, where an artificial female voice placidly asked him to select his destination. He started poking at the menu options on the screen with one hand while digging out his wallet with the other. He was in luck; there was a shuttle running the milk route across the continent that left in half an hour, and it was stopping in Des Moines. He pulled out his credit card and stared at it for a moment before stuffing it back in his wallet and digging out a generic credit chip, instead. Then he thought some more, and since they never checked ID on domestic runs, he punched in his name as 'James Kaplan'. Not terribly creative, but unlikely to be flagged.

He hoped not, at least.

The shuttle was bustling with people, and he employed some dodge-and-weave skills to make his way through the narrow aisle without bumping into too many people. The good-looking women, though, he made less effort for. He gave one particular blonde a wink as he brushed past.

He'd had to get a seat in business class, not that he was too concerned about travelling in comfort; at least that meant instead of the rows and rows of seats with open aisles, he'd be in one of the closed-off compartments. When the door swooshed open on his compartment, though, a man was already inside, blinking up at him from one of the seats.

"Uh," Jim said. "Hi."

The man said nothing. Instead, he turned his head to look out of the large window.

Jim walked the rest of the way inside, allowing the door to shut, and threw his bag onto the overhead shelf. The man, he realized, was Vulcan; he didn't know how he'd missed the ears on first glance. He had that bowl-cut going on too, and was dressed in black robes. Jim collapsed into the facing seat, giving him a tentative smile.

"You're a long way from home," he said.

The Vulcan spared him a brief glance. "On the contrary, my current place of residence is in the borough of Manhattan."

Jim let out a startled laugh at that. He'd deserved it, for making assumptions. New York drew all kinds. "Where are you travelling to?" he tried.

The Vulcan turned back to him, his mouth tight. "Am I correct in identifying this as a human attempt at 'small talk'?" His voice managed to carry no inflection but still somehow drip with disdain. Jim was fascinated.

"Yep," he answered, unable to fight back a grin.

"I see. Will refraining from answering your questions lead to their cessation?"

"Nope," Jim said delightedly.

The Vulcan arched an eyebrow. "I am travelling to San Francisco."

"Vacation?"

The other eyebrow joined the first. "Business."

Jim slouched comfortably in his seat. "What do you do?"

They stared at each other for a while, and when the Vulcan opened his mouth again, Jim was sure he was about to be told off for being a nosy bastard.

But instead, the Vulcan said, "I work for the Vulcan embassy."

He did have an ambassadorial look about him; his bearing was regal and he seemed like he'd fit in well at highbrow parties. If he could manage not to talk to anyone else.

"I'm going to Des Moines," Jim volunteered after a moment.

He got no response.

"You're not going to ask me why?" he asked playfully.

The look he got in response was a clear 'no'.

"Oh, come on. I bet the curiosity is killing you."

"I assure you that it is not."

"Suit yourself," said Jim. "My name's Jim, by the way. And you are?"

He was sure he heard a tiny sigh, and saw the Vulcan's shoulders sag minutely.

"Spock."

Jim smirked just as the shuttle lifted off. It was going to be a fun two hours to Des Moines.

***

Jim passed the time from New York to Philadelphia to Chicago by looking out the window at the landscape below and keeping up a constant chatter at Spock. Spock, for his part, was stiff and unresponsive to his conversational gambits at first, but gradually seemed to relax just a little, occasionally giving him one- or two-word answers.

Shortly after Jim hit a lull in a monologue about books, Spock got up suddenly.

"Ditching me?" Jim asked idly, blinking up at him.

"I am going to the dining area; I have not yet consumed my evening meal." Spock moved gracefully to the door of the compartment, his robes sweeping around him.

Jim's stomach growled on cue. He abruptly realized he hadn't eaten all day (too keyed up). "Mind if I tag along? Or are you actually using this as an excuse to ditch me?"

"I cannot control your movements within this shuttle," Spock said as the door opened for him.

Jim took that as an open invitation and hopped to his feet to follow.

The dining area was bustling with a late dinner rush; a waiter escorted them to a table and left them with menus. Jim noted that Spock didn't say anything about their being seated together and felt a little surge of warmth at that; he liked making new friends. Spock was so prickly that he counted it as a special victory to be tolerated for this long.

He stayed quiet for a change of pace as they inspected the menus; when the waiter came back, Spock ordered a salad (with no dressing) and Jim got the trout.

"Vegetable fan?" Jim asked, when their food arrived and Spock had stabbed his first forkful of plain greens.

"Vulcans do not consume meat."

"Can't, or won't?"

Spock chewed and swallowed before answering. "It is frequently the case, even among humans who choose vegetarianism, that both statements are true. A body which is unused to digesting animal products typically loses any ability to do so."

Jim grinned. "You talk like a scientist."

Spock looked up at him. "You are unaware of who I am." His tone was edging into 'bemusement' territory.

Jim blinked, wracking his brain. He couldn't come up with any Vulcan celebrities, off the top of his head. "I'll bite. Who are you?"

Spock looked down at his plate again. "I was the Chief Science Officer and First Officer aboard the starship _Enterprise_, at the time of the Nero Incident."

Jim fought back a blush. Of course. There was one famous Vulcan. In his defense, he'd been spending some quality thinking time in County back home at the time, and all he'd heard of the news had been through word-of-mouth and occasional glimpses of headlines on the guards' news PADDs. The stories that hadn't been about Chris Pike had mostly been about Spock, he remembered vaguely. "That was you, huh?" he said awkwardly. "Can't believe I forgot. So. Uh. How'd you go from that to the Vulcan Embassy?"

Spock was still concentrating on his food. "I resigned my commission to support my people in the recolonization effort. When the colony on the new homeworld was stable, returning to Earth seemed a logical course of action."

Jim had no idea what to say. He took a bite of his food. It was good, he thought distractedly.

"Why are you going to Des Moines?" Spock asked suddenly. It was a clear bid to change the subject, and Jim nearly laughed.

"It's about a case of mistaken identity." It was funny that he was talking to a former Starfleet officer right now, of all people.

"Please do not be cryptic. You did insist earlier that I should ask."

Jim snorted softly. "That's true. I'm looking for a man named George Kaplan."

"And you expect to find him there?"

"Well, he's supposed to still be in New York. I guess what I'm looking for is a clue as to who he is."

"And how do mistaken identities influence this quest?"

Jim pressed his fork into the pile of rice on his plate. "Somebody thought I was him. And whoever he is, they don't like him very much." He looked up at Spock. "They said they were in Starfleet."

Spock put down his fork. "If the only concrete thing you know about this man is that he has some tie to Starfleet, then why are you going to Des Moines?"

Jim blinked. "Where should I be going?"

"Besides the large compound in New York, which I can deduce you do not wish to visit due to the high risk of meeting the Starfleet personnel who mistook you for this 'George Kaplan', Starfleet is headquartered in San Francisco."

"You think there's someone there I can talk to about this?" Jim asked. But Spock's attention was distracted; he was looking out of the window beside them.

"Have you encountered two Caucasian men of medium-to-large build in the course of your predicament?" Spock asked.

"What?" Jim asked, turning in his seat to peer out the window as Spock flagged down their waiter.

They'd landed on the tarmac in Des Moines. He'd just spotted Drake and Stevenson with some cops outside when his arm was hauled on. Spock dragged him to his feet; he was deceptively strong.

"I do not think it is wise for you to disembark at this time."

Jim let Spock usher him out of the dining area and back to their compartment. "Those men tried to kill me," he said vaguely. "How did they find me so fast?"

"It would not have been difficult to precede us here, given the number of stops our shuttle has made. In here," Spock said, opening a small door inside their compartment and shoving Jim through it. He looked around dazedly and had just realized he was in the tiny, private bathroom when his bag was thrust into his chest.

"Be silent," Spock said, closing the door on him.

Jim blinked in the darkness, hugging his bag to his chest, and stood quietly, regulating his breathing. It was getting unbearably warm and stuffy and he was just about ready to walk out again, despite Spock's orders (and who was he to order Jim around?), but then there was a knock on the compartment door.

"Enter," Spock called, and Jim heard a jumble of muffled footsteps. He leaned forward and pressed his ear to the door, holding his breath.

"Have you seen this man?" demanded a male voice. Jim guessed it was one of the cops.

"I have not."

There was a pause. "You were seen with him in the dining car."

Jim's heart skipped a beat.

"Your witness was mistaken. Vulcans do not lie."

There was another, long silence.

"You can see that I am alone in here," said Spock. "Do you have any further enquiries, or have my responses satisfied you, officers?"

"Have a nice trip, sir."

The footsteps travelled out into the corridor again. Jim counted to five and then exhaled, long and slow. He thought his knees might give out. Finally, Spock opened the door again and stepped aside to let him out, his face cool and expressionless.

"How much longer to San Francisco?" Jim asked.

"Three hours."

"Let's hope I'm safe until then." He threw his bag back onto the overhead rack and reclaimed his seat.

"As they possessed an image of you, possibly from official documents, it would be in your best interests to remain in this compartment until we arrive in San Francisco."

Jim rubbed at his temples, suddenly exhausted. "I wonder what Drake and Stevenson told the cops."

"Are those the men who were outside?"

"Lackeys of the admiral I had the misfortune to cross paths with."

Spock looked slightly alarmed. "It was an admiral?"

"Some ice queen. Fuck, I can't remember her name now." The photo was in his bag; he thought briefly about getting it out but left it alone. Odds were probably low that Spock would know her in the first place, after so long out of Starfleet.

"When we arrive," Spock said, "I will have some hours of liberty before attending to my work there. You may wait in my hotel room while I speak with some personal contacts at Starfleet on your behalf." Spock studied him. "You appear to have need of rest; it is best that you take care of your health until more concrete leads have been established."

"Thank you," Jim said gratefully. He couldn't believe his luck. "I'm so sorry you got dragged into my weird drama."

Spock lightly shrugged a shoulder. "I still feel nostalgic ties to Starfleet. Where there is evidence of wrongdoing, I feel compelled to assist in correcting it."

"You are officially the nicest Starfleet officer I've ever met," said Jim, settling back into his seat.

Spock raised an eyebrow.

***

When the shuttle landed in San Francisco, Spock said, "We shall wait in this compartment until the majority of passengers have dispersed into the shuttleport concourse."

Jim sagged into his seat. He wanted to _move._ "Yeah, probably smart, I guess."

Spock rose to his feet and retrieved his bag. Jim watched with detached interest as he dropped it onto the seat to dig through it. Finally, he pulled out a long, dark robe.

"Put this on," he said, holding it out to Jim. "I have an additional head covering to disguise your ears."

"What?" Jim had apparently missed a chunk of the conversation.

Spock stared briefly off to the side; Jim realized it was some Vulcan equivalent of eye-rolling. "Regardless of the presence or absence of passengers from this shuttle in the concourse, you cannot walk around as you are. In this robe, you will pass as my assistant." Spock held the robe out again, expectantly, and Jim took it with a sigh.

"Can I just throw it on over my clothes?" he asked.

"It provides the same complete coverage as the one I am wearing," Spock said.

Jim shrugged and hauled it on over his t-shirt and jeans. The hem skimmed the floor (he realized suddenly that he and Spock were almost exactly the same height) and would probably cover his runners for as long as he needed it to.

"Jesus," he said after a moment, "this thing is warm."

"Vulcans are desert-dwellers," said Spock.

This had to be winter clothing, Jim realized. He was going to swelter in it. Great.

He looked up to see Spock advancing on him with some kind of scarf. "Hold still," he said, tugging Jim's head forward to wrap the scarf around it.

Jim obediently went still, his arms out at his sides, while Spock tugged and tucked and folded and then he stepped away, and Jim's head felt heavy and warm and the thing sat low over his eyebrows. He reached up gingerly to feel the shape of it; he was more or less wearing a turban. The ends hung down around his ears and shielded the back of his neck from the nonexistent desert sun.

"I hope your hotel's close," he said, "or I'll get heatstroke and die, and my problems will be solved anyway."

"I believe the idiomatic term for such an occurrence would be 'win-win'," Spock said as he picked up his bag.

Jim sputtered, and then sputtered some more when Spock proceeded to hand the bag to him.

"Assistants," he said in that annoyingly calm voice, "carry luggage for dignitaries."

Jim sighed and took the bag. "Well, then. After you, _sir_." Small price to pay, he reminded himself as they stepped off of the shuttle.

When they emerged from the little hallway off the shuttle and onto the concourse, Spock set off at a ground-eating pace that left Jim struggling to keep up without tripping on his robe or dropping the bags. Just as he was considering how a Vulcan might possibly call another Vulcan an asshole, Spock stopped in front of a bank of public comm units.

"We have passed security and I suspect you may be safe, should you wish to resume your former appearance," said Spock. "There are facilities in that direction." He nodded off to his left. "I have a communication to transmit."

"Okie-doke," Jim said, making a beeline for the bathroom. His forehead itched with sweat under the turban-thing and he thought he was about to fall over, between the weight and warmth of the clothes. They'd done the job, though, he had to admit.

When he emerged again, cooled off and back to his normal appearance, Spock was just hanging up the comm. He turned elegantly to face Jim and took his bag. Their fingers brushed in the transfer and his hand was warm.

"The hotel is downtown," he said. "We shall take a private transport."

They hailed a cab outside and Spock directed it to the Fairmont; Jim looked up at the building as they got out of the cab and thought that he might like to work for the Vulcan embassy, if it meant these kinds of perks.

Spock was staying in a suite with a huge balcony. Jim threw his duffel bag on the floor in a corner and walked straight outside, grasping the railing and leaning out to take a deep breath of salty air. They weren't close enough to the ocean to see much of it but the skyline was still striking in the late afternoon light, the sun shining gold off of the glass.

"I am going out again to speak to a contact at Starfleet," Spock said from the doorway. "Please make yourself at home and consider the merits of sleep."

Jim snorted at the wording. "All right," he said, turning to face Spock. "Hey. Thanks. I mean it."

"Reserve your gratitude for the event that I manage to procure you some assistance." Spock left.

When he'd had his fill of the scenery, Jim wandered back into the room, leaving the door open to let a breeze in. He stifled a yawn. The bed, or the couch? It was Spock's room, but the bed looked _really_ inviting.

In the end, he lay down on top of the covers, rolling a little to his side and staring vaguely at the far wall.

When Jim opened his eyes again, it was dark. Spock was back and moving quietly around the room. The water ran for a few moments in the bathroom, and then he came out and shut the balcony door with a soft click. Jim blinked into the darkness and then the bed sank lower on the other side, the springs creaking faintly.

"How'd the meeting go?" Jim asked, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. Man, he'd slept like the dead.

"My contact intends to pursue a number of avenues," Spock said. "We shall know more tomorrow. Where are you going?" he asked.

"Couch," Jim said vaguely, waving in that general direction.

"Do not concern yourself," Spock said. "This bed is large and I do not sleep a great deal."

"Okay," Jim said slowly, and watched as Spock removed his shoes, placing them neatly side-by-side on the floor, and bent to remove a mat and some candles from his bag. He laid the mat out on the carpet in front of the TV and arranged his candles.

"Do you have any fragrance allergies?"

"Little bit," Jim said, bewildered.

"I shall refrain from using the incense, then. It has a potent aroma." Spock sat cross-legged on the mat and lit the candles, then took a deep breath and shut his eyes, sinking suddenly into motionlessness.

Jim stared at him for a moment, watching his meditation, and then got up to go use the bathroom before going back to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim sucks at waiting but is really good at annoying Spock; Kaplan remains a spectre and Spock sets up a meeting.

Jim woke to the early morning light brightening up the room; the drapes had been left open. He rolled onto his back, staring at the clean, white ceiling, and abruptly realized he wasn't alone in the bed. Spock lay facing the other wall, apparently still asleep. It really was a big bed; there seemed to be acres of mattress between them. Jim stared at the outline of Spock's shoulder under the blankets for a moment, and then sat up, swinging his feet to the floor.

He went to use the shower, digging out fresh clothes on the way there, and when he came out again, clean and somewhat more awake, Spock was out of bed. He was wearing some kind of sleeping robe that was obviously of Vulcan design, and he walked past Jim with a nod of acknowledgement to use the bathroom.

Jim smiled to himself when he realized that Spock had started the coffee maker.

Spock had also apparently ordered room service already, which arrived about a minute after he'd emerged from the bathroom himself. Jim watched from the table by the balcony as Spock tipped the bellboy and carried the tray over.

"What the hell is this?" Jim asked as soon as the cover was removed.

"Breakfast."

"A salad bar," Jim corrected him.

"Colloquially, I believe the first meal consumed each day is breakfast, regardless of its composition."

"Colloquially, _I_ believe that a vegetable tray is a slight against the noble tradition of breakfast."

Spock's response was to pick up a carrot stick and eat it. "That one," he said, pointing at something white and sliced, "is a Vulcan vegetable, krupenta; a delicacy now that Vulcan no longer exists and the crop must be regenerated. It is highly nutritious and sour to the human palate." He picked up a piece of that, too, and ate it as he walked away from the table to open the balcony doors.

Jim picked up a krupenta slice and sniffed it warily. He put it down again and licked his fingers; they tasted vaguely lemony. "I bet it's your favourite," he said.

"It has a complex flavour which I appreciate," said Spock, which was probably as close to an admission of liking something as he'd get.

Jim had more coffee instead. "What's the plan today, then?"

Spock came back to sit at the table. "I have meetings which I have come here to conduct," he said.

"On a weekend?" Jim asked.

"I have a busy schedule; it was convenient." Spock ate another piece of krupenta. "You are waiting for my Starfleet contact to comm me again with information."

"Will that be today?" Jim asked.

"Possibly. Possibly not. It is, as you pointed out, the weekend."

Jim deflated. "I have to hang around here?"

Spock arched an eyebrow. "The individuals who tracked you to Des Moines have most likely discovered by now that you did not disembark there. If this Starfleet admiral has the influence I would expect her to, then she has dispatched her people to each stop the shuttle made thereafter, including San Francisco."

Jim looked at the window. "You think they're out there pounding the pavement with my photograph?"

"Their methods are probably more efficient than that but I believe you have understood my point."

"All right," Jim said, "so I'm trapped here. Great." He remembered his manners, belatedly. "Uh. Thanks for letting me hide out in your hotel room."

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement and stood up. "I must depart for my first meeting. I will not return until after the evening meal. If you require food or drink, please charge it to my room."

Jim blinked at the generosity.

"Vulcans may no longer have a homeworld, but we are still the richest members of the Federation," Spock said, somehow managing not to sound arrogant, just matter-of-fact. Which was a bit arrogant in and of itself, Jim realized. "I will take my leave. Here is my communicator number, should something happen." He left a business card on the table before he left the room.

Jim sat back in his chair and stared at the vegetable tray. It was going to be a long day of waiting, and he didn't respond well to boredom. He shot a look at the bed, considering a nap to wile away the time.

After a moment, he got up and went to the desk, firing up the computer terminal there. It was networked, and he did a search for hotels in Des Moines before pulling out his communicator. Thinking a moment, he tried the most expensive hotel in town first. That wasn't saying much, in Des Moines, but it meant he had to call only two places before he found the hotel George Kaplan was booked at.

"_Looks like he checked out this morning, sir,_" the receptionist said.

Jim swore silently. "Thank you." He hung up.

"All right," he said to the terminal, shoving his fingers into his hair, "he only stayed one night. Townsend didn't mention any later destinations when she was busy running her mouth at me. How did—did he check out _early_?"

He glared at the terminal screen, but it had no secrets to reveal. At least, not without him directing it. He cracked his knuckles absently, mind working, and set to hacking the network databases for the continental shuttle line, the same one he'd ridden to San Francisco.

Jim hadn't kept his less-legal computer skills current, and quickly hit some security measures he didn't recognize. But he'd once been really good at this shit for a reason, and within ten minutes he'd broken into the booking interface and was logged in under the identification number of some hapless employee with a password of 'password', reasonably certain he hadn't set off any alarms anywhere. Federation Security was not a nice group of people and he thought that having them kick down the door of Spock's hotel room to arrest him wasn't really the best way to pay back Spock for his hospitality.

Jim started searching the booking interface for 'Kaplan, G'; his eyes widened at the number of hits that showed up, before he realized he'd done a search spanning six months into the future. Still, he hadn't realized that Kaplan was such a popular last name. He scaled it back to a week and found two hits; Gertrude Kaplan was probably a non-starter, so he selected the other one, labelled simply as G. Kaplan. He selected it with some anticipation and then stared, because it was a booking for that afternoon going from Miami to Toronto.

"Fuck!" He leaned back in his chair, letting it balance precariously on two legs. If Kaplan was leaving Des Moines, it wasn't by shuttle. As far as Jim could tell, the trail was cold.

He thought, for about thirty seconds, of calling his mom in Riverside and asking her for more local help, but then winced at the memory of their last conversation. Hard to believe that had been two nights ago; somehow it felt like months.

He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, thinking. No brilliant plan was coming to mind. "Fuck it," he said finally, getting up to go collapse on the bed. He'd sleep or watch the news on the holovid for a while.

***

By that evening, Jim had taken more naps than a human being possibly should in one day, and had also finished off the vegetable tray out of desperation and boredom. He was just pondering the room service menu and thinking about dinner when the door opened and Spock walked in, setting down a briefcase by the desk and joining him at the table.

"Did you hear from your guy?" Jim asked immediately, dropping the menu.

"I did not."

"Dammit!" Jim rubbed at his temples. "Well, tomorrow's Monday, right? He'll call tomorrow, right?"

"He will call," said Spock, "when he has acquired the information we seek."

"I can't stay cooped up in here," Jim muttered.

Spock studied him. "You have not eaten?"

"No."

"Then let us go down to the restaurant. It will at least be a change of scenery."

Jim stood up. "I'll take what I can get."

They rode the elevator down in silence. When they entered the restaurant, Spock requested a booth near the back and then sat on the side facing the door. Jim laughed at him after the server walked away with their drink orders.

"What is so amusing?" Spock asked, an eyebrow arched.

"Typical Starfleet," Jim said, still chuckling. "You guys always pick the most tactically sound seat in the room. And when there's more than one of you, you fight over it."

Spock looked slightly uncomfortable. "I take it you are acquainted with many members of Starfleet?"

Jim shrugged, nodding at the server when his beer appeared in front of him. "Parents were Starfleet. Grandparents. Great-grandparents too, or at least four of them were."

"But you are not Starfleet."

"Nope," Jim said. "I'm a junior advertising executive. And a repeat offender with a juvenile record."

"Fascinating," said Spock, at which point the server returned and Jim ordered food.

"So," said Jim, when his burger arrived along with fresh tea for Spock, "what kind of meetings did you have today?"

"My diplomatic work holds a top-secret classification," said Spock.

"Okay, well, do you do like, visas and stuff?"

"Occasionally. I do many things in the course of my duties for the embassy."

"Are you an actual ambassador for Vulcan?"

Spock sipped his tea. "In a broad sense. However, I am actually an assistant to the Vulcan ambassador to Earth."

"How do you get a job like that?"

For a moment, Jim thought Spock wasn't going to answer. "He is my father," Spock said finally.

Jim laughed. "I like the irony that you _left_ Starfleet to pursue a career in nepotism."

"The argument is frequently made that Starfleet's habit of employing several generations of the same family is due to their attention to familial needs, engendering loyalty."

"You didn't hear that from a 'Fleet brat," Jim said, chomping on a french fry. "When your parents are in space, either you're in space with them or you don't see them, and that's it. It's not rocket science, Spock." He inhaled the last of his burger. "Starfleet is full of people with mommy and daddy issues, and they breed more kids with mommy and daddy issues and therefore more enlisted. Childhood trauma is the best recruiter they could ask for."

"An interesting approach," was all Spock said to that.

Jim smirked into his beer glass.

"I take it that your acknowledgement of this apparent fact is what kept you from enlisting."

"Why do you say that?"

"A 'repeat offender with a juvenile record', as you described yourself, likely does not have an exceptional home life, either. You merely chose a path of less discipline than the children of Starfleet personnel who enlist."

Jim finished his beer before responding. "My dad died in space," he said.

"I see." Then Spock said something in Vulcan.

"What was that?" Jim asked.

"A Vulcan expression. It loosely translates to, 'I grieve with thee'. Merely an expression of sympathy."

"Empathy," Jim corrected.

"On the contrary," Spock countered, "my mother died at the Battle of Vulcan. I believe that I have an awareness of how you feel."

"If you say so," Jim said. He changed the subject quickly. "I'm done. You done?"

"My tea is cooling," Spock agreed.

They paid, Jim with a credit chip, still concerned about his anonymity. Then they went back upstairs to Spock's room.

"Well," said Jim, dropping into a chair, "back to the room I love to spend time in so much."

"I often forget that humans are so reliant on diversions for their attention," said Spock, which made Jim stick out his tongue while Spock wasn't looking.

Spock went to his bag and began to sort through its contents. "I do not suppose you play chess," he said.

"I suppose that I actually do know how to play chess, thanks," Jim answered.

Spock looked up in surprise. "Three-dimensional chess?"

Jim nodded.

Spock removed a portable chess board from his bag.

"Do you go around looking for opponents on business trips?" Jim asked in amusement as Spock set it up on the table, folding out the playing surfaces.

"This board remains in my travel bag regardless of my destination; I have a more permanent one in my home. I do occasionally play chess against myself in lieu of meditation," Spock said, emptying the bag of pieces onto the table.

Jim caught a pawn before it rolled off of the edge and held it up, examining it. "Can't find a good enough partner, huh?" he asked.

"I am a grandmaster, and challenging opponents do not often cross my path," Spock said.

Jim cocked an eyebrow, in imitation of Spock. "Well, today's your lucky day," he said. "Some of us had nothing better to do in juvie."

***

Spock didn't hear anything on Monday either, and when he got back from his meetings, Jim dragged him down to the hotel bar. He'd spent the afternoon on the computer terminal in the room, trying to track down some trace of Kaplan and coming up with nothing, and he still hadn't worked up the nerve to call his mom for help (although he might have been too late already for that to work, either). On top of that, he'd thought about calling into work, but odds were good that Admiral Townsend's goons had been by his apartment and would be staking out his office anyway, and he didn't want to risk calling even Rand. Work would have to suffer and if he was lucky, not fire him and torch his office.

"I need to get really, unreasonably drunk, and you might as well join me," was all Jim said to Spock's protests at going downstairs again. He made a token effort to appeal to Spock's cautions for safety by choosing a booth instead of sitting at the bar.

Spock drank tea while Jim just drank (Spock said that liquor didn't affect him anyway, which Jim wasn't sure he believed). Jim also talked, and increasingly rambled, as he worked his way through several beers. Spock sat and ostensibly listened to him.

"I'm lucky," Jim said, sometime after his fifth or maybe sixth pint, "that I ran into you. You've been kind of a lifesaver, even just with the giving me a place to crash."

"As I told you before," Spock said, "I have not helped you yet."

Jim waved a hand. "That's okay. You're still doing more than most people would. And I like you. You're cute."

Spock stared.

"Whoops," Jim said. "Cat's out of the bag."

Spock slowly raised his eyebrow. "There is no cat in this room."

Jim squinted at him. "Yeah, no. You get idioms. That fake stupidity shit isn't so endearing."

"Duly noted," Spock said, sipping at his tea.

"You have anyone at home in Manhattan, Spock?" Jim asked.

"I do not."

"Me neither."

Spock looked up at him. "Are you attempting to repay me for my hospitality?"

"No," Jim said, "I do this for fun."

Spock finished his tea. "I do not believe that more alcohol would be a wise idea, given your current state."

"What state?" Jim grinned as Spock stood up.

Spock placed a credit chip on the table. "Drunk."

"I'm not so drunk," Jim said as he pushed himself to his feet. Spock steadied him with a hand on his arm as he climbed out of the booth.

"I disagree."

Jim took two steps and stumbled into Spock, startling him into wrapping an arm around Jim's shoulders for support. Jim pressed himself up along Spock's side. He smelled clean and faintly of incense, and Jim inhaled deeply. "Let's go back upstairs," he whispered.

"You are going to bed."

"Yes, I am."

"To sleep."

"You're no fun."

Jim cooperated all the way to the elevator, walking mostly under his own power but still leaning into Spock, who kept his arm around Jim's shoulders until they stopped inside the elevator car. They were alone, and Jim leaned in to breathe in his smell again, mouthing his way along Spock's jaw as Spock stood still.

"I can stop," he said, nipping lightly, "but first you have to tell me you don't want me to keep going."

Spock said nothing all the way to their floor and their room. When they were inside, Jim pushed him up against a wall, pressing himself against Spock's front.

"You sure you're not interested?" he asked.

Spock just looked at him.

Jim looked at his eyes, his lips, and then he picked up Spock's hand, pliant and yielding, and kissed the palm.

Spock's eyes slid shut.

Jim kissed it again, dragged his teeth along the skin before licking it with his tongue. He sucked Spock's index finger into his mouth and Spock thrust up against him, groaning.

"Yeah," said Jim, "that's what I thought."

Spock opened his eyes and leaned in to kiss Jim, hard. Jim kissed back, smiling into his mouth, and they manoeuvred their way over to the bed, stopping beside it. Jim broke the kiss.

"Been a while for you?"

Spock pushed him onto the bed by the shoulders and followed after him, as Jim laughed.

***

Jim woke up warm, which was odd given that he was naked. Then he registered the other body in the bed, pressed up against his back. Vulcans, he thought, were like electric blankets, but warmer. He stretched and Spock shifted behind him, dragging a lazy hand up his ribcage before rolling away. Jim moved onto his back and turned his head to look at Spock.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," Spock returned.

They looked at each other for a moment. "I need a shower," Jim said suddenly, and got up. He could feel Spock's eyes on him all the way over to the bathroom.

When he came out again, Spock was sitting up in bed and saying goodbye to someone on his communicator.

"Good news?" Jim asked, going to dig fresh clothes out of his bag.

Spock held up a notepad with an address and time written neatly on it. "My contact in Starfleet wishes to meet you at this location."

Jim pulled on jeans before taking the pad. "In an hour?" he said. "I need to leave now, don't I?"

"If you plan to take public transport, that may be wise."

Jim stuffed the address into his pocket and hauled on a shirt. "All right," he said. "I'm off." He couldn't resist leaning in to kiss Spock goodbye. "I'll see you later."

"Good luck, Jim," said Spock, and then he got up to take a shower.

When Spock was in the bathroom, Jim reached back into his bag and pulled out his crumpled photo of Admiral Townsend. Then he was out the door. When he got outside onto the street, he looked up his address on a map: it was southwest of him, near the waterfront. He located a transport leaving in five minutes that would mean only one route change on the way, and he was off down the block to find it.

When the transport arrived at the address Jim had, he stepped off warily, digging the paper out of his pocket again to compare it to the numbers on the gate. He was at the right place; it was a shipping yard. The gate was open, slightly, and with a look around, he walked inside.

He was on time, almost exactly, and there was no one around. Jim walked between rows of shipping containers and came to a stop in an open space with a large forklift at one side. He checked the time on his communicator again and frowned, turning in a slow circle.

The phaser beam hit him squarely in the chest. His muscles seized up as he lost control of his nervous system, and the ground rushed up to meet him as his vision went dark from the outside in.


End file.
